


The Sea

by littlehands



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: F/M, Pre-movie AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehands/pseuds/littlehands





	The Sea

She dreamt of the sea, childhood cooped in stays and increasingly cumbersome skirts. The short crossing stayed in her mind like a fire that was fed by the air, burning its way through mind and matter until it reaches the sun. The island suited her, even her father said so. She was happy to be here then back in London, sent off to some finishing school.

Here she isn’t confined to the house, although always kept a close eye on, she can wander in the narrow warm streets of Port Royal. Everyone knows who she is; women tisk at her brown skin, or browner then a lady’s should be; freckles on her nose, starting to trail down the sides. She’s still young in her father’s eyes, but not to the more knowing townspeople.

Her old dresses, soft calico in shades of azure faded like the summer sky; pinch her sides, where they run against her whalebone stays. Walking down the sloping street from her house on the hill, gated with heavy iron. The houses are more stout and weathered, whitewashed every few years.

She knows the streets well, taking the short cut between the barrel makers and the chemists. Knocking on the back door, she waits for a face to appear. Thinking he might be busy, she leans against the far wall, looking a shade like the ladies of the night mentioned in her father’s books that are on the high, yet not unreachable, shelf.

He stand in the door watching her, just for a moment, before she smiles. He’s covered in soot, as always, save for his right cheek which is wiped clean as he tried to get a stray ember from his eye. He smiles back; she doesn’t go in, and he doesn’t invite her in. Even though they are still young, there are things that one doesn’t do; knowing what the town will say.

They walk down to the water, no one bats an eye, or so they think. People have been placing bets on the two of them since they both arrived on the same ship. The women like to think that they will end up together, like a storybook. Men have a different view, they think that they will never marry, 'cause of her father, but also that there was defiantly more going on then people knew. They teased him, gently, hoping that he’ll spill about the afternoons on the beach. But he doesn’t just blushes, like the boy he is, and changes the subject.

Many think, once she turns a decent age that they’ll hop ship; her idea. She was always the one with ideas, he was too good to think of things like elopement. She’s a wild one they say, not like she’s done anything to make them think that, but the women say she has the look in her eyes. The look of the sea, the look of someone who doesn’t stay put.

Her father says she looks like her mother, in the aged looking glass that once graced her dressing table. She can’t remember what her mother looked like, only that she cried a lot. Learning to walk in black taffeta dresses, then learning to read in dark purple crepe. It wasn’t until coming to the Indies that he let her break from morning clothing. The print dress was her first since she was in the cradle.

He likes her in the faded dresses, she always plays with the hem as they sit in the shade, waiting for the air to cool. Watching the fisherman in the distance, the fort on the right. They talk about things, everything yet nothing. Sometimes he can’t remember anything she said besides good night. He’s think of her in ways he can’t remember thinking about her before, not just as the girl who told him pirate stories as he drank cambric tea, the swaying of the boat giving a undercurrent to her childish voice. He didn’t think her voice was like a child anymore, but it didn’t sound like the girls - women who pressed themselves to him outside the Falcon.

She looked over at him as she talked about the fight she had with her tutor, a old man who snored when she did long sums. She saw him there, sitting against the rough trunk of the palm, but he didn’t seem to be looking back at her. Or she though, he seemed to be looking through her, in a dream it seemed. She continued on, but marked this change in her mind; his eyes seem to have a new look to them, brighter somehow.

The day is hotter then the others this week, the sun is still bright on sand. He asks her if she wants to swim, spotting some of the other apprentices in the shallows, safer from the things of the sea. She shakes her head, hair escaping the twist at her nape. He asks again, saying it was too hot just to sit. She repeats her response, a no; looking at him, there are things that I can’t do now. He pauses, how is today different from last week.

Father says I am a young lady now, not a child, that I must act like it. Looking over at the water, the mixed group of children splashing and laughing. But they aren’t any older then you, he replies; she again says something about being a lady. It is then that he realizes that this doesn’t have anything to do with the water or the heat; but something else. She lives in a real house, he lives in the backroom of a workshop. She eat dinner with her father, like a real family; he eats in between his work, dry bread.

She is hot, the dress is heaver then she remembers, but she knows that word will get back to her father if she goes swimming. She promised him, on Sunday evening, as he read to her, that she would act her age from then on. He was still looking at her with that quizzical look that made his eyes get even wider. But then he leaves her in the sand and goes to the water’s edge.

The small waves lap at his bare feet, having left his worn shoes back in the workshop. Scraping his dark hair from his eyes, looking back at her. He wants to swim, but hates the fact she’s still under the trees. Not like she ever went in the water with him, even he knew that was not proper. She would lift her skirt up, calves exposed and let the water run over her feet. Smiling and laughing at him, as he dived under the waves, looking for strange creatures to show her.

She watched him, stealing glances back at her. He walked a bit up towards her, and pulled his loose shirt over his head. Bare chested, she blushed, hoping the shade would hide her hot cheeks. He walked in to the water, nothing but old sailcloth breeches on, and dived under a wave.

He felt the water cool his face, and the sand rough under his hands as he pushed off the sand bar. Braking the surface close to shore, he scans the beach for her, seeing her coming towards him. Maybe she’s forgotten all that ‘Lady’ business, he thinks. Her shoes are still on, and she skirts the lapping water as not to spoil them. Swimming into the shore, he wonders if things will always be this way from now on.

He comes out of the soft surf, wet and glistening in the bright sun. She brings her hand up to shield her eyes, but her tongue catches in her throat. She was the one with the quick responses for everything, he was the one who looked on in quiet glances. But here she was speechless as he walked to her. It was just him, she told herself, no reason to go all brainless; it seemed silly to her, but she just blushed furiously.

She looked at the ground, while he stood dripping in front of her. He cleared his throat, and looked at her. The silence was overwhelming, why did he have the sudden urge to push the lock of hair in front of her eye away. All this new feeling flowing out of him, where did his brain go. He prides himself with being a rational person, having no family does that to a person. Now here on some silly little beach, he feels naked, and only wants to kiss her.

He want to kiss me, she thinks, having read this scenario in many a romance d’cleve. She doesn’t know what to do, wondering if she should turn and run for her room, or say something coy yet witty or just close her eyes, letting whatever happen. He’s still staring at her, like he’s seen a ghost. Braking his gaze for a moment, she sees her way out.

She’s gonna leave, he thinks, she doesn’t want to kiss me. She mumbles, and turns to go. By instinct, he grasps for her arm. Wait, he says, just wait a moment, pausing, I’ll walk you back. She shakes her head, blond locks flying. We can’t stay the children we were on that ship, she intones softly if to make the blow less harsh.

He looks hurt, but she knows that this is the right thing to do, even if there is a twinge in her heart. She doesn’t mean to hurt him, just that her father has been saying that it wasn’t proper. His hand is damp on her arm, facing him again, she smiles, a half smile. I’ll be fine, Will.

The next day she sees him in a doorway as she walks by with her maid, he looks at her, she looks back, but passes to quickly to say anything.

On Sunday, he comes to the house to pick up some silver to repair for her father, standing in the dining room, he gently bows, a little dip at the waist. Good evening, Miss Swann.

She has lost him, and it was all her fault; she thinks that night combing out the wind made knots, what harm could one kiss done?


End file.
